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Inanimation Station

"The life of a tree is peaceful for the most part, but every now and then even plants wage war."
- Claudius Dogwood

The straights were dire, the future grim; a nest of termites had taken up residence on the side of the tree, and in time could kill it completely. For months now it had formulated its plan, carefully observing the termites and occasionally testing their defenses. The moment for decisive action had come, so with the aid of a strong gust of wind a gnarled branch the length of a forearm managed to finally dislodge itself. After being nearly broken off in a storm years before the branch thought it had become useless, but that had actually prepared it for this cunning plan. With a wooden vengeance it sailed down onto the termite nest, sinking into the top of it close to the trunk.

The nest did not dislodge, and the queen was swiftly pulled from her collapsed chambers; the termites breathed a collective sigh of relief. Little did they know, however, this was merely the first phase of the plan. With the structural stability of the nest below weakening, the branch began tilting outward, and finally toppled over onto the grass below, its thicker end covered in termites. It wasn't long before a large hawk nesting at the top of the tree spied the newly freed branch and thought it an excellent addition to its nest. The branch would've laughed if it could, and waited with glee as the bird descended to pick it up. Thanks to the expertly calculated angle, the branch had fallen in such a way that what looked like the middle to the hawk, was actually closer to the thin end.

This imbalance forced the bird to correct its flight several times, giving the branch just enough time for the next phase to occur. As the hawk was nearing its nest in the top of the tree, the termites finally reached its feet. Fearing the fall, the fools had climbed up the branch, biting in their rage the whole way, and had mistaken the bird's feet for wood; a costly error. The hawk dropped it in surprise, and the timing was perfect. Like the wrath of an angry god the branch soared down from the skies to land a second crushing blow to the termite's nest. The strike killed the queen instantly, and even managed to dislodge the nest entirely. The leaves of the tree waved in the wind to celebrate, and the branch joyously bounced a few feet away. Flipping end over end, it managed to lodge itself into some soft ground in front of the tree. Pride was clear on its bark, and it eagerly took on its newfound role of guardian, waiting patiently to defeat any who would threaten its tree.

Under the light of day hooves clicked against the jagged precipices of Qlasp Mountain. Corneous skulls crashed into one another, heads driven by a conjunction of bone and muscle. Two goats, their hides a layer of bone-white hair, slowly circled one another. One wheezed furiously, threatening to trample its rival as its horizontal pupil held the opposing stag in contempt. A few hundred paces above was the summit, a rocky outcropping thrust into the sunlit firmament. Thus, their horns clashed, for reasons unfound but in their animalistic conscience, and they rose with their graceful bodies. Supported by their hind feet, they exchanged another onslaught of head thrusts.

The goats landed, stamping their hooves on the rock underneath. Their combined forces caused a young fracture, two arm spans long. Yet one lost its footing and found itself sliding down the mountain. With nothing to hold onto the minutely perfect surface, the animal reached a cliff and dove headlong into the woodland below. Stirred rocks and stones soon followed it its wake; a certain one, the biggest of the group, then emerged.

A few-hundred-pace drop, the beast bleated on its descent and met the earth with a blood-spattering thud, staining the ground red. The boulder that followed landed on the animal’s head, giving it what many would call a second death. But the rock did not stop there, for it found itself traveling further down and into the thick wood. It entered the shade of the trees, its momentum driven by gravity and other unknown natural forces. Suddenly the rock stopped; a long, wide branch had fallen from its behemoth mother -- a towering wood-laden tree that seemed the center of this uncharted strip of forest.

The remnant of the bough was a light-colored patch in the trunk’s natural rind. Something about the branch, the fracture of bark against stone, stirred something else within the rock, almost a voice that pestered it in its rocky mind: “You’ve found a new enemy. You’ve found a new enemy! - destroy it,” and thus, it hoped the gods would accept its plea to assist in its newfound mission.

Last edited by Fezomorph; 01-08-2018 at 04:41 PM.

"I'm not a sophisticated person - I don't think much. Hunters don't think. They act, and they do it without any hesitation whatsoever. It's a predominant principle among all trackers of beasts. We do most of the dirty work. Thinking? I say leave it to the philosophers."

It was with anticipation the sacred guardian of the oak watched this new foe approach, and aided by a burst of blessed breeze the branch tilted forward to loom ominously over the stone. Through years of bitter storms it had writhed gnarled from the twisted trunk of its over-treer, eventually extending proud and erect in its prime. Though forced to lay low for many winters, the heart of a warrior had ever-burned. Gathering now all its might, the broad branch leered under a barken brow yet-furrowed; distant winds howled as a flash of lightning in the darkening sky threw a stark shadow across the stone. A blast of wind and a clap of thunder heralded the branch as it hurled down its wooden wrath from on high.

The stick fell over onto the rock, then rolled off of it.

Wind whistled through nearby leaves for a long moment, but the arm-length branch was already plotting again. The guardian of the tree had garnered a newfound respect for this worthy fist-sized foe, and knew it would need to be even more cunning to outwit such a strong tactician. Soon, the ground beneath the two began to shift, and as it rose the resourceful rock rolled away to safety. The bold branch, however, had pinned one end of itself up against a tuft of grass, and rose up with the soil.

Called forth from the depths of the underworld itself, a fuzzy mole popped out of the ground and looked around for a moment. Surely the simple stone trembled now in terrible fear at this monstrosity, and the stick smugly sat perched just atop of the mole's head. Its impeccable balance allowed it to remain as its mount searched for enemies, so small was the rock below in its sight. The eldritch pact of wood and soil only provided so much time, though, so the mighty mole retreated into its subterranean lair.

The guardian of the tree noted with a troubled brow that the stalwart stone stood strong, but its overconfidence would be its downfall. The sneaky stick sank with its mount into the earth, and its other end tipped up into the air. The first phase of the plan had been a success, despite his exceptional opponent. Now the bold branch needed only a generous gust to move into the second phase, an inevitability given the sky-bound gray turmoil swallowing the south.

Minutes passed as the two stared each-other down, but both refused to yield, and the leaves of the tree waved on their champion. If a branch could perspire, it would have, their silent exchange was so intense. Never had the sturdy stick come across such a foe, but its resolve held strong as it called to the heavens for aid. Finally, the air stirred, and a sudden burst of wind carried the branch forward, along with the hopes and dreams of its kin.

Blue colored a darkened sky, a brief burst of clouds that crazed the horizons with its streaks and arcs. An afternoon wind hissed through the tree-stippled arena, kicking up a puff of leaves from the forest ground. A storm brewed in the distance, preceded by fairly strong winds that portended its arrival. As the seconds passed, the rock realized it had stumbled into the branch’s territory, the enemy's dominion. But this did not flex its will, its resolve, for its rocky physique was as sturdy as it got.

As the dark-colored beast disappeared into the depth, the stone’s imaginary shoulders sagged, relieved by the foil of the enemy’s plans. A pause followed, an exchange of glares that rivaled even the veteran rock’s greatest battles; never had it confronted such a potent foe-- but once. In a time not so distant in its memory, it had clashed with one of its own brethren.

It emerged victorious.

Shattering the other stone to fragments, the remnants of its rival were instantly dwarfed by the victorious rock, shuddering in its wake. Yet it wasn’t all butterflies and rainbows, nay, for the rock used to be in a much better shape than it was now; it had fell victim to remorseless stonecutters from nature, ruthless gusts of wind that slowly gnawed at its flesh. Thus, its size lessened, and with it its power.

Still, that could not break its confidence as it remained strong in the shadow of its foe and its greater matriarch. With its acute senses, the stone studied both in search of an opening.

Carried by a gust of air, the stick assailed airborne.

A discordant symphony of wood and stone echoed a hushed confrontation in an arena that was unexplored backwoods.Stunned by the impact, the rock rolled further back up a subtle rise behind it. Its efforts were insufficient to climb the entire crest, but behind this was a silver lining: this earned it momentum as it retired down. With all its rocky might, it rolled over the stick to match its precedent assault.

In the process, it stumbled onto the mole’s emerging spot, a hazard that that it had not considered as it propelled its return down the slope, and foolishly so. The hole the beast’s emergence had created was, to its relief, not as wide as anticipated; the rock lay squatted over the depression. This, it considered--watchful of its foe as it lay planning its next move--must have been one of the stick’s traps.

"I'm not a sophisticated person - I don't think much. Hunters don't think. They act, and they do it without any hesitation whatsoever. It's a predominant principle among all trackers of beasts. We do most of the dirty work. Thinking? I say leave it to the philosophers."

The plan was coming together perfectly; while the sturdy stone may be tougher, it was also heavier, and that would be its downfall. Much like the intense Battle of The Nest, the guardian turned its hope now to the skies. Though its bark may be cracked, it was by no means out of the fight, and spotted a wayward hawk swimming through the grey above. With all the mental might it could muster, the stalwart stick summoned its feathered brethren, but nothing happened for several minutes. Finally the stars aligned, and a hopping hare alighted upon the branch, cautious eyes flitting about the grass, but with nary a thought to gaze above; foolish. Onyx talons ripped through flesh and intestine as they pinned the dying rabbit to the wooden warrior, and white-streaked wings beat their way ever skyward. Soon, the resilient rock wouldn't be leaving that hole ever again.

A pair of young teenagers wandered into the clearing, dressed in plain wool and laughing as they talked. The branch distrusted them immediately, the evil things. It seemed they must be some facet of the sly stone's wicked plot. Sure enough, the two spotted the soaring stick almost immediately, and as one pointed and spoke, the other laughed in disbelief. Then, the foul beasts walked over to the land-locked rock and pried it from its damp prison; a more cunning and terrible plan the bark-encrusted battle-branch could not imagine. Its noble grain gazed on in horror as the dastardly deviant reached back and sent its mortal enemy flying. The spinning stone arced up into the air, and struck the hawk as it circled back to its nest. The guardian's hopes fell as fast as its rounded foe, and even the leaves of its tree grew still in their shock.

A thump echoed through the forest as the solid stone landed, and a few moments later the stick struck ground a few paces away. It sank into soft soil and stood firm in defiance, despite the thorough thwarting of its prideful plan. Long moments passed as the two humans walked over to the felled bird and rabbit, then wandered off with the animal's corpses. Brown bark paled to think of what twisted schemes the wicked ones had for those cooling cadavers. As the footsteps faded the wind returned, and the gnarled guardian cast a long and wary gaze at the slippery stone. Surely, the presence of such a carefully carved warrior was no mere chance. The bold branch worried this invader might carry an army in its wake, a concern its over-treer had also seen in its wisdom. Already branches stretched in the wind, and leaves reached for the waning sun to gather what strength they could before the swirling winds of a sudden storm overtook the sky altogether.

Stricken by a god's breath, the wind shuddered to a nearby cacophony of thunder. Lightning streaks were now bolder than ever before. The storm was edging close, and afore long, the skies would heavily weep their sorrow at the brutal battle of rock and tree that was underway.

The stone had not so much as screamed as it parted the bird's claws. The earth had approached alarmingly quickly, but as it gauged its descent, and fate, it had realized the incoming impact would thankfully not be strong enough to shatter it. It would be lying if it claimed it had not feared thus once the malevolent human-child had had hurled it skyward. That deviant, trouble-rousing whippersnapper!--it thought. In silence, it watched as the two bipedal beings left with their prizes. Then, statically, turned and fell its gaze once more on its foe.

The stick seemed as if in the midst of a showdown, not of size, nor of strength, but of height; one end was embedded into the forest soil as the other hung upward. It was no more than a half-inch taller than the stone. Its thin frame, however, when compared, was laughable next to its looming, much sturdier matriarch.

The sun overhead was now shrouded in a heavy veil of cloud, smothered by the dark, gloomy gray that stretched beyond sight's extent. The stick was motionless, perhaps stricken by the foiling of its once accurately measured plans; that is not to say that the rock fared much better. Weighing its options, it almost decided that its raw strength could not measure up to the stick's trickery--which had been doubtlessly guided by the watchful oak in the background. The combatants were in a stalemate, which would break only at the inevitable advent of external assistance.

Then the rock started to seriously doubt if the gods had not been a viewer of this battle; it could have sworn that it heard a discord of groans--not of pain--but of disappointment.

... It could feel it, a growing tear in the thin gauze of reality. Ancient power bled from the wound that had suddenly appeared. A violet-red gate that was like an otherworldly lodestone, pulling at everything in the vicinity.

Something huge pushed a bestial arm from within, paw landing heavily on the stirred soil. A moment later a massive head appeared, hanging on a mane-cloaked neck. Long, thick sabers pushed past its upper lip and even beyond the lower jaw, an occasional peel of the lips revealing their ridiculous extent. The full size of the beast was revealed as it fully emerged, leg muscles bunching. The wound had shut as quickly as it had had opened.

The catlike beast paused, inches away from the stone. Testing the air, it suddenly fixed its inhuman gaze on something beyond sight, in the deeper parts of the wood. Then it broke into a trot, one paw easily nudging the stone off the hole. The rock rolled uncontrollably in the direction of the erect stick, its pace burgeoning with every second. Yet it only halted at the contact.

The stone was resting awkwardly against the stick's base, and in its wake followed an anxious monstrosity.

"I'm not a sophisticated person - I don't think much. Hunters don't think. They act, and they do it without any hesitation whatsoever. It's a predominant principle among all trackers of beasts. We do most of the dirty work. Thinking? I say leave it to the philosophers."

By the blessed bark, such a sight was well beyond the ken of mere shrubbery, and the idle roll of mortal foe went unnoticed in the wake of such a monstrosity. Even when the sturdy stone struck softly against the buried branch, a quiet hung over the two stalwart warriors. Surely the great beast would've aided the stone in some way had that been its purpose, yet it casually strolled deeper into the forest. Such complacency was shameful, and so the mighty matriarch swayed harder in the growing wind, all but one of its branches in harmony until it finally snapped. Whirling through the air this broken brother sailed, stabbing the earth as it landed halfway to its battle-weary friend to hold aloft its base, that which had lived closest to the mother tree. In that wooden gore gleamed the broken piece of an axe from many winters ago, before the branch had grown, proudly bearing this reminder of its enemy, its purpose, since the beginning; all hail the over-treer.

Lightning lanced down to the freshly-freed branch, greedily eyeing sweet metal within, and as it burned its brother and their stony foe were struck by the shock-wave. The wounded wooden warrior refused to waste this opportunity, and so managed to snag itself on a tuft of grass as it flipped over the stone. Just as the rock rolled over onto the bending branch the momentum slowed, but the smoldering stick was bombarded by another bolt, refusing to yield its plated prize. Pressurized oils burned in the broken branch, screaming out as gaseous vents while the soldier's insides melted and boiled; all hail the over-treer. The torque of its sibling stick beneath the stone, combined with the force of another shock-wave, managed to fling the foe up to roll along proffered branches throughout the forest. Once more the scarred stick fell short, only springing a few feet into the air, but with a final glance between them, its brother stretched its smoldering remains just a little higher, offering the red-hot axe piece to the gods. Once more the lightning fell.

This time the wave blanketed a silent forest, flinging the solemn stick airborne and helping the skilled stone roll along to another branch. The two warriors were guided in quiet onto the gently rolling back of the beast that had spawned from that crimson portal. Only when they landed on that ocean of undulating fur did all the sounds of the world come roaring back, the howling wind and groaning bark; the storm was nearly upon them. The battle-hardened branch did little but roll idly back and forth as the giant creature trotted deeper into the forest, to the very foot of the mountain. It was after several long moments, and with respect evident in its grain that the stick turned again towards its spherical enemy. It longed to return to the base of its over-treer, but the wooden warrior knew full well that the hopes of its kind lay on its barken shoulders; it could not back down now. The wind whipped up through the branches of many foreign trees, all with the same intent; break, break the stone, break it now.